The Boat

By Jim Markson

On paper, Detective Mike Kelly is as solid as a rock. Smart and aggressive, well-schooled in the art of “putting up and shutting up”, he has put in his time, proved his salt, and climbed the ladder of law enforcement until he finally earned the tough brass badge of an FBI Special Agent.

In real life however, he is a ball bearing one turn away from fission. Worn raw by bureaucracy and bullshit politics, he has returned to his roots as a local cop in Tampa. Drowning in a sea of mediocrity, he is flailing for something to give his life meaning. Distraught over the death of loved one, he is too often finding comfort in the bottom of a bottle and battling demons that come in the dark of the night.

As if getting by weren’t challenge enough, Mike has registered for the “Eco-Loco” small-boat endurance race from Tampa to the Florida Keys. Joined by his brother, a war hero recently returned from Afghanistan, they are capsized in Tampa bay on the very first night by a careless yachtsman. Even greater threats lay in their future, from dehydration and tropical storms, to the bull sharks, crocodiles, and pythons of the Thousand Islands of Florida’s southwest coast.

Still, in between the sarcasm and cutting banter of brothers, old bonds are renewed and provisional relief is found in these desperate straits. But the boat is simply too small, the wounds too deep, and the waves too big as the course seems destined for a sad ending.
And then one night, in the middle of a storm from hell, while Mike sits passed out at the tiller, a slight girl named Erin Shaw pulls herself into the boat as she is being swept out into the Gulf of Mexico. A marine mechanic who left the U.S. Navy with psychological scars of her own after surviving the bombing of the USS Cole, Erin is smart, independent, and nothing if not adaptable.

Having survived the Eco-Loco, Mike helps Erin start a small marina in Key Largo. The salt air starts to heal his wounds and the sun starts to show in the forecasts. But the events of their midnight encounter in the Gulf of Mexico have a long tail, and when the bad guys eventually show up, Mike must decide between the law and justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Markson
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996241403

Jim Markson

Jim Markson is an aspiring author who retired from the U.S. Government after 29 years of service as a Case Officer, Polygraph Examiner, and Investigator.

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Acknowledgments

As may come to light if this book sells worth a damn, there were some issues associated with the government’s review of my first fictional book, An Average Spy. In the most difficult of these times, I was provided invaluable emotional and legal support by several great lawyers, the first being Dan Schwartz and Brenda Gonzalez of the law firm Bryan Cave. Later on, Phoenix Harris of Harris & Carmichael came to my rescue. They are great people, represent the best traditions of our legal system, and it is an honor to be able to publicly thank them. I am not sure I would have been able to persevere without them.

The seed of this book started with my brother, and his love for building and sailing small boats. My sisters provided critical help with editing and creative review. My wife and children patiently endured the many troubles and trials that accompanied my pursuit of professional writing. I could not have been blessed with a better family, and thank you all for your support.

And most importantly, I want to thank the Lord, whose patient love I have spurned repeatedly, yet found always waiting whenever I opened my heart and eyes. I have been a jackass on too many occasions, so let me once do it right and say thank you for all my blessings.

I

The bag … get the bag! Mike Kelly yelled to his brother, who was hanging onto the opposite side of the small capsized boat.

John could barely hear his brother’s shouts over the wind and cascading waves, and what little he could hear was rendered unintelligible by floating, busted equipment banging against the hull of the boat. Despite the cold chaos and growing darkness, they still had eye contact, and John, extending his left arm out, bent at the elbow with his palm facing up, signaled that he had no idea what his brother was saying.

The bag … get the fucking bag! Mike repeated, shouting with all his body and motioning to a bag floating away from the boat and momentarily silhouetted by the moonlight on the top of a three-foot wave two body lengths away from John. Still not hearing Mike, but understanding his general intent, John looked in the direction of his brother’s gesture and saw the bag just before it slipped back down the far side of the wave. The upside down bag was white, the same type typically used to line a kitchen garbage can, but it was firmly tied halfway up its length, and the air caught in the top was acting as a sail, carrying its precious cargo hidden below the water farther from the boat with each successive wave.

Finally realizing that his brother wanted him to leave the relative safety of the capsized boat and swim to the rescue of the escaping bag, John turned back to look at his brother with bemused incredulity, simply shaking his head to gesture a firm no. Despite his brother’s exhortations and obviously twisted priorities, John Kelly would not be fetching his brother’s bag of goodies. Maybe, he thought, we should focus on righting this boat?

II

Earlier in the day

It was after sunset, and the two brothers were technically in the Gulf of Mexico, even if it was only half a mile southeast of the mouth of Tampa Bay. They were thirteen hours into the first day of an eight-day adventure race from Tampa to Marathon Key called the EcoLoco Challenge, and things weren’t looking good. The boat was a nine-foot nutshell pram, a sailboat that John had been building for years and had finally finished just before going off on his most recent deployment to Afghanistan. It was the type of boat used to teach young kids how to sail in a mild breeze on a sunny afternoon in a lake or protected bay. It was barely big enough to hold both Mike and John, and ridiculously overweight when you added all the supplies and equipment needed for the eight-day race. Mike was amazed he hadn’t been asked more questions at the equipment inspection prior to the start of the race.

The weather had been the worst in the twelve-year history of the event. A front was passing through and appeared to have been timed to coincide precisely with the sunrise starting launch of the race. As the red ball of fire rose out of the east, below the Skyway Bridge that defined the mouth of Tampa Bay, it was quickly hidden behind fast-moving gray and misty clouds looming ominously close to the water. A bagpipe began its eerie wail, announcing the official start, the sound banking off the low ceiling of clouds, and the crews of larger boats began to push their crafts from the beach with confidence and shouts of enthusiasm. Many others, however, the first-timers as well as some of the more experienced, hung back with second thoughts about the wisdom of launching in such conditions. Some waited a few hours, others waited till the next day, and a full fourth, maybe the wisest, decided they could wait until next year.

The cold front was slowly moving south, the same direction as the racers, and there was no way to know if it would hang with the competitors the whole way, resulting in a week’s worth of black-and-blue beatings, or move out smartly, leaving behind blue skies and favorable winds. At the beach launch, however, things were dismal. The winds were twenty-four knots and right into the face of the racers, making it particularly difficult to even get off the beach. While four-foot waves are nothing for most boaters, this race was specifically designed for small boats; many of the competitors were in small single kayaks, and a wave half the length of the boat was a formidable source of power. While the outriggers and catamarans seemed to have an easier time, the strong wind on the nose beat several of the single-hulled sailboats right back into the shore before they could ever gain enough distance to begin maneuvering and tacking into the stiff wind.

Mike and John surveyed the scene without conversation. This was their first time at the event and they didn’t know any of their fellow competitors, many of whom were obviously experienced veterans. Some of the single sailors and kayakers the brothers assessed as having the most experience were quietly hanging back, looking for the sun behind the gray clouds, and watching the direction of the wind and the waves. For half an hour the two leaned against their small sailboat saying nothing, just watching what the others were doing.

While John had built the boat, the idea of entering the race had been Mike’s, and he had undertaken all the preparations with the understanding that his brother was coming along strictly as unprepared support crew. It wasn’t the small boat’s maiden sail, but it was the first time she had ever been in open water, and would also be the first time that anyone other than John had sailed her.

Well, Skipper, what do you say? Call it a day and go have a beer? John asked without much hope. He had suffered more than his fair share of being miserable in the army, and his lust for adventure had been sated over the years, replaced by an appreciation of the comforts of civilized life.

Mike looked at him without saying anything, shook his head quietly, and smiled as he muttered, Fuck that; let’s get this party started. The two easily pushed the small boat off the beach, waded out into the bay until the water was almost up to the waist of their dry suits, and then jumped in simultaneously on opposite sides of the boat. Mike took out the oars and easily bolted them into their locks. With his back against the wind and his face toward the beach, he began rowing as the small boat was tossed up and down by the incoming waves.

The chop of the waves made it hard to get a steady bite of water with the oars, but they were making progress and not being beaten back into the beach like many others. Mike rowed until they had an extra measure of maneuvering room, then stopped and stowed the oars. John admired Mike’s ability handling a boat in which he had never spent any time, and as Mike quickly mounted the small mast, he instructed John to switch places as he raised the sail and moved to the back of the boat. On the way, Mike dropped down the centerboard of the boat and, once in the stern, mounted and bolted the tiller in place. He then pulled in the main sheet of the sail as he turned the boat to run parallel to the beach, which constituted the western lip of Tampa Bay.

The brothers made good time with the strong wind, but the heavy chop made everything more difficult. With each wave, a significant amount of water was splashed into the boat, and John took up bailing duty, amazed at the effective bailer Mike had made out of an old milk jug. The bailer was securely fastened to the base of the mast so that it could reach wherever needed, was always within easy access, but was easily stowed if they ever got to a point of smooth sailing.

They spent the next several hours running parallel to the beach, but, even with the centerboard, the wind and the waves would eventually push the boat too close to the beach. They would then have to essentially reverse course, tacking back into the wind to gain some distance away from the rocky beach. It was fairly simple sailing, but the wind and the chop kept both the brothers busy, and there wasn’t much said.

After their second tack, probably about 0900 hours, Mike leaned forward and pulled a small insulated cooler bag from under the center plank of the boat. With his foot holding the tiller, he unzipped the bag and pulled out a white garbage bag. John watched with amazement as Mike untied the bag and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, which he nimbly tucked under his steering leg as he tied the bag back up and put it back into the open cooler, pushing the latter back under the center plank.

Here’s to fair sailing, Mike said, his second sentence since they had left the beach. He unscrewed the cap, hoisted the bottle, and took a swig.

What are you doing? John replied with concern and bewilderment.

You prefer vodka? Mike asked. I got some of that too. Even got small bags of weed - haven’t had any of that stuff since we were teenagers! But we’ll need fairer sailing before we get into any of that. Mike smiled as John looked on, speechless. Okay, then, Turkey it is! he said and took a longer pull off the bottle and screwed the cap back on, handing it to his brother.

Based on John’s countenance, Mike imagined the questions swirling faster than the winds coming at them off the starboard side. They had spent less and less time together as they had grown older, mostly as a result of John’s military career. And undoubtedly John’s own mind was twisted in ways he would never fully understand. Yet, here he was, looking at his younger brother, but wondering who the madman steering their small boat was.

Quite a neat little trick, your refreshments and all, was all John could say.

Mike noted the tone of concern and disapproval. He didn’t want to get into a fight with his brother; he wanted to have a good time, maybe one last good time together. Aw, come on, man, lighten up. When was the last time we were out together sailing? You don’t want any, I don’t mind. If you get worried about my skippering skills, the tiller is all yours. Besides, it’s not like we’re gonna have a real party out here with this wind. Mike reached forward, took another quick swig, and said, Lets get ready to tack and see if this time, on the way back, we can make it all the way up the beach and line up with the harbor mouth. John didn’t respond, suddenly preoccupied with deeper concerns about the changes in his brother.

The boys made the tack without incident and spent an hour or so gaining several hundred yards from shore, before turning yet again and running a line parallel to the beach. The wind had changed slightly, and they were running with the main sail a little less tight; making it to Mullet Key at the southwest corner of the bay in a couple of hours didn’t look like a problem. John said nothing as Mike occasionally pulled the bottle of Wild Turkey out from under the center plank and had a swallow. The sky was still overcast, and, as the temperature was moderate, they unzipped the front of their dry suits, but a damp chill set in shortly thereafter. John finally relented and took a pull from the bottle offered by his brother. The fire in his mouth warmed his throat and body as it descended to his gizzards.

It was mid-afternoon when they beached the boat on the small spit of land known as Mullet Key. With the boat secured, they walked together to the southeastern tip of the island, surveying the relatively small channel they needed to cross in order to begin the real part of their journey. The crossing they gazed at was known as Egmont Channel, and while it was not particularly wide, navigating it was a challenging task for the small boat. The water depth dropped from an average of twenty feet they had been sailing in thus far, to over sixty feet, and it ran fast, as all the tide water of Tampa Bay moved in and out twice a day. In addition to the swift currents, the chop changed to bigger, rolling waves that gained steam as they barreled their way down the channel, which made navigation a greater concern, as no land markings would be visible when the little boat was in the trough of these rollers. These concerns were amplified by the fact that the channel was used by huge cargo ships entering and leaving Port of Tampa and, while a sailboat generally had the right of way, if they found themselves in the path of one of these behemoths, there simply was not enough room for the bigger ships to alter course; the small boat would be doomed.

With the boat beached, the far side of the channel was approximately a mile away from where they stood and was marked by small, deserted Egmont Key. Several hundred yards long, Egmont essentially divided the mouth of Tampa Bay in half, with the water on the other side of the island constituting the Southwest Channel, twice the width of the Egmont Channel, but much shallower in depth and typically used by yachts and pleasure craft.

Mike assessed the crossing of the first channel as probably the most dangerous part of their journey. The crossing was complicated greatly by the fact that they would essentially be sailing directly into the wind, and if they were forced to tack, a term used when a boat zigzagged into the wind, they risked the potential of luffing, with sails flapping uselessly as the bow of the boat pointed directly into the wind. Such an event posed a moment of complete vulnerability… to the fast tides and big rollers that would be hitting them broadside, and the even bigger cargo ships that had no brakes even if they saw the little nine-foot boat trying to cross the channel.

One thing in their favor was an abundance of daylight; it was still mid-afternoon and Mike hoped to reach Egmont and cross above the north side of the key before it was close to dark. Once through the first channel, they would then complete the less adventurous two miles across the Southwest Channel over to Anna Maria Island, which essentially constituted the mainland of the Florida Peninsula. On the other hand, they had missed slack tide by over an hour, and while the tides were not yet at full speed, they were gaining momentum with every passing minute.

The brothers walked back to the boat and then dragged it through the shallow waters to the very tip of Mullet Key. Mike had brought much less safety equipment than required by the race organizers, but one of the items he did bring was a set of binoculars. He couldn’t help but look across